


home run

by eggutart



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Highschool AU, M/M, baseball AU, some smoochin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-25 20:13:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14984735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggutart/pseuds/eggutart
Summary: charlie would not have joined the baseball team under any circumstance but one.mac is his one.





	home run

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer my baseball knowledge is exclusively from wikipedia and watching a fourth of one (1) phillies game

Charlie would not have joined the baseball team under any circumstance but one.

Mac is his one.

“Come  _ on _ , dude, it’ll be fun,” Mac had pleaded, fitting his Phillies cap over Charlie’s unruly curls. He took him by the shoulders, squaring him with the mirror. 

“See, Charlie? You look awesome,” Mac said, massaging the base of his neck. Charlie scoffed, wriggling out of Mac’s hands to turn to him. 

“I don’t play sports, Mac,” he argued, tossing the cap across his bedroom. Mac had stifled a laugh over what Charlie figured was his own hurricane-swept hat hair. Charlie moves to sit on his bed and Mac catches him mid-walk, placing a chaste kiss on his cheek and lingering his fingers on Charlie’s wrist for a moment too long. Charlie’s already pink.

“Please,” he had said, batting his dark eyelashes. “For me.” 

And Charlie could not bring himself to say no. Not when Mac was looking at him like  _ that _ . As if Philadelphia needed shitty baseball players. 

 

They pick their uniforms up from the school, even though it’s summer. Charlie thinks its unethical to be in a mile radius of the campus until September, but Mac drags him along because, hey, maybe they’ll run into some of their teammates. Mac was always trying to get Charlie to make new friends. Charlie doesn’t know why, because he has Mac and that’s really all he needs. 

Charlie’s number four and Mac is number five. Mac is ecstatic about this, and Charlie can’t bring himself to tell Mac it’s probably just because they signed up right after each other. 

“Charlie, this is so cool,” Mac says, unfolding his uniform and holding the shirt up to his chest. His eyes are glistening and Charlie thinks maybe this whole ordeal is a little bit worth it. 

Mac hands Charlie his brown paper parcel of starched fabric and he grimaces just a bit at the thought of wearing this in front of a crowd. Mac, like he’s  _ psychic _ or something, rests a hand on Charlie’s shoulder, pulling him ever so slightly into him. 

“It’s gonna be great, okay?” Mac says, hushed. “I promise.” 

Charlie doesn’t try to escape this time. 

 

Their first game is a nightmare. For Charlie, that is. He nearly breaks his ankle in one run and close to passes out in the next. He’s asked to sit out when he takes a baseball to the face.

Mac does fine, more than fine, actually. Charlie watches from the bench as Mac’s enveloped in a group hug from the other boys, white gloved hands around his shoulders and ghosting Mac’s back where Charlie should be. It’s the sudden camaraderie that really gets Charlie. Mac is suddenly so goddamn invested in the team and player number sixteen Charlie wishes he got hit harder. Maybe then Mac would care. 

Charlie’s probably imagining it, but he’s watching Mac watch number sixteen a little too closely, a little too intimately. He shakes his head like an Etch-a-Sketch to clear his thoughts.

 

After the game, when Charlie’s still benched, but now holding a knotted plastic bag full of ice to his eye, Mac comes over and sits beside him.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, placing his hand on Charlie’s thigh. Charlie cringes and Mac takes his hand away at once. “Sorry.” Charlie isn’t used to this in public, and while it probably just looks like a teammate thing, he doesn’t want to risk getting beat up in the locker room. It’s bad enough at school as it is.

“Number sixteen, huh?” Charlie says, mockery lacing his words. 

Mac doesn’t catch it. “Yeah! He’s really good. Were you watching him?”

“No,” Charlie says, staring straight ahead. “But you were.”

Mac’s eyebrows furrow and he reaches to turn Charlie’s face to look him in the eyes, but Charlie’s reflexes are faster and Mac is predictable. Charlie stands. “I’m going home.” 

He pushes past player thirteen and seven and the young assistant coach who doesn’t do  _ shit _ and exits the field.

“What are you gonna do, Charlie,” Mac shouts, making sure Charlie and everyone else on the team can hear him. “You’re just gonna walk home?” Charlie doesn’t reply. 

“Fine, fine,” Mac says, lowering his voice. Everyone is staring at him now. Some scoffing. Some rolling their eyes. Number sixteen averts his eyes. “I was your fucking ride, dumbass,” Mac finishes under his breath. Charlie could be real stupid sometimes. Stubborn asshole. 

 

It takes Charlie twice the time it normally takes to walk home because of his damn ankle. He doesn’t think it’s broken but he’s certainly screwed up the oh-so promising baseball career he once had in front of him. He ignores Bonnie and storms directly up the stairs and to his room, but it isn’t as dramatic as he hopes with the whole dragging of his dead ankle and all.

He toes his cleats off on the way to his room, leaving them strewn about the hallway. He flops onto his bed and peels his socks from his feet and embarrassingly starched pants from his legs. Charlie’s knees are bloodied and the red stains the fabric. He finds an old shirt in his drawer and rips it into one continuous shred, wrapping it like an ace bandage around his ankle. He doesn’t realize how  _ gentle _ he’s got to be, because it is so painful that each time he presses a finger where he shouldn’t a series of knives shoot up his leg.

The first thing he thinks to do is call Mac, but he can’t even do that now. So Charlie lies back on his mattress, sans-sheets because he hasn’t done laundry in months, and breathes. He’s too filled with his cocktail of anger and exhaustion to take it off, even though he swears he can feel the number four searing into his back with each moment that passes.

 

When Charlie wakes he isn’t wearing his jersey. He’s wearing something foreign, actually, but when he’s cognisant enough to regain his sense of smell it’s undoubtedly Mac’s.  “God dammit,” Charlie mutters, sitting up and beginning to pull the cotton off his body. It was enough to be _thinking_ venom-covered daggers towards Mac, but it was something else to be enveloped in his scent. Because it was kind of hard for Charlie to hate him like this.

And then Charlie freezes, squinting at the bathroom door. Light is seeping out of the crack between it and the floor and Charlie rolls his eyes so hard his head hurts. He doesn’t want Mac to be here right now, at whatever the fuck time in the morning it was. Charlie guesses two, but four wouldn’t be out of the ballpark. Ha. Ballpark.

“Get out of my house,” Charlie says, raising his voice cautiously as to not wake Bonnie but to make Mac jump out of his socks. 

The bathroom door creaks open and Mac sticks his head out. He’s got a towel around his head and one of Charlie’s  _ Jurassic Park _ shirts on. 

“You’re awake,” Mac says. He’s grinning at Charlie and drying his hair with his rose colored towel embroidered with his initials and Charlie’s trying really,  _ really _ , terribly hard not to get up and smack him. Or kiss him. He can’t really distinguish between the two at the moment.

“Stop breaking into my house,” Charlie complains, looking Mac over. “And don’t change my shirt when I’m sleeping. It’s just creepy.”

Mac smirks and tosses the towel on the top of the door to dry. He just about waltzes over to where Charlie sits on his bed, leaning down to tuck a curl behind Charlie’s ear. 

“You had blood on your uniform, baby,” Mac says, acutely aware of Charlie’s injuries as he lays him back on the pillows, ignoring Charlie’s resulting glare from the nickname he so despised. Mac makes up for it by pressing his lips to Charlie’s neck, though.

“Mac,” Charlie whines, not making any real effort to push him away. He lowers his voice, as if he’s afraid if he speaks too loud it’ll become a reality. “Don’t leave marks.”

Charlie can feel Mac smiling against his skin and he knows his pleas are for naught. Mac is not Mac unless he’s breaking rules, showing off, or both. This is a  _ both _ scenario. Charlie finds no use in arguing any longer, letting Mac send butterflies through his bloodstream with each kiss.

Mac peppers light marks across Charlie’s neck and his freckles forearms and his cheeks. He stops at his lips, smoothing his thumb over his cheek before cradling him close in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Charlie says, barely a centimeter from Mac. He closes the gap between them, letting himself connect with Mac’s warm lips and he feels like he’s come home. 

“I know you are,” Mac replies, kissing Charlie between each word. Charlie feels about eleven years old but he can’t help but giggle because Mac’s trying to make it up to him and the kisses tickle. Mac pulls Charlie onto his side so they are laying opposite each other in Charlie’s bed, fingers intertwined and foreheads touching. 

“Charlie,” Mac says, and Charlie’s heart skips several beats. “Forget about sixteen.” Charlie feels overwhelmingly guilty and he stares anywhere but at Mac. Mac takes his chin in his hand and Charlie lets him this time; anticipates his movement but doesn’t shy away. Mac’s eyes are so  _ sturdy _ Charlie believes him. His voice is like velvet and Charlie can forget his throbbing ankle and the pain in his heart subsides. 

“Who?” Charlie returns Mac’s smile, leaning in to kiss him again. They don’t remember falling asleep like that, Charlie in Mac’s arms, but the day after is Sunday and there’s a Phillies game on, so Charlie lets Mac stay for a little while.

 

Charlie quits the baseball team. He returns his gear in the parcel it arrived in, bleached and dried, but he can’t meet the coach’s eyes. It wasn’t like anyone was really rooting for him, anyway. No, that wasn’t it. One person was. 

Mac stays. He nods at number sixteen occasionally yet Charlie doesn’t feel jealous anymore. Instead, when Mac hits a home run or looks really cool when he slides into a base, he beams at Charlie, and Charlie feels like the kid in the stands who catches the ball from his favorite player. 

His ankle still hurts and his knees are plastered with dinosaur bandages under his jeans, but his vendetta against the sport has faded. Charlie decides baseball is actually really great when it’s the Phillies, and even better when it’s Mac.


End file.
